The Way It Ought to Be
by OnlyaNovel
Summary: The impulse of a moment in Netherfield's drawing room leads to a more hasty proposal, and consequences that are painful, and humbling, and eventually happy. - I have removed the larger portion of this story due to plagiarism concerns. Will probably publish before long. Sorry!
1. Unpredictable, but Always Unpleasant

**The Way it Ought to Be**

" _I see your design, Bingley," said his friend. "You dislike an argument, and want to silence this."_

" _Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me."_

" _What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter."_

 **Chapter 1: Unpredictable, but Always Unpleasant**

Mr. Darcy's quill scratched slowly over the surface of his paper. It was the loudest sound in the room, interrupted only by the irregular jangle of Mrs. Hurst's bracelets. Combined, Elizabeth found them intensely irritating.

There was a mumble at the card table. She turned her head, and watched as Mr. Hurst languidly placed a card on the table. Just as languidly, Bingley picked one up. Miss Bingley's skirts brushed the carpet as she moved in a monotonous circuit, from the card table to the writing desk, and back again.

 _Oh, for heaven's sake_ , she thought. Could anything be more tedious than an evening at Netherfield Park? After a short period of debate earlier, the whole room had fallen into a lethargy; a lethargy that threatened to swallow her too. Even now, her needle seemed to move more slowly, the simple task of pushing it through the fabric requiring more exertion. Quite soon, she felt sure, they would all fall asleep like Mr. Hurst was wont to do. _Oh, Jane,_ she thought, _get better._

With a last, incisive rustle of paper, Darcy folded his sheet, and pushed it away. "I wonder," he said, moving his chair back, "if I might beg you ladies for the indulgence of some music."

His movement seemed to startle the room. Elizabeth blinked at him dazedly; Miss Bingley moved with haste toward the pianoforte. "Of course, Mr. Darcy, " she said. "I shall be delighted—unless Miss Eliza Bennet would like to lead the way?"

All eyes now turned on her. For several seconds she failed to understand what was being asked of her, so deep was the apathy that had overtaken her. Then she saw the instrument, the gleaming keys, the sheets of music, and her mind cleared. "Yes!" She seized the opportunity to dispel her sense of listlessness. Playing and singing would give her something to do. "Since you have heard me before, I need fear nothing. I am at your disposal." Miss Bingley, clearly disappointed, was forced to retire.

Casting aside the despised needlework, she rose, went to the instrument, and began to look over the music. It was all Italian arias and French cantatas, and while she could appreciate both, she knew they were not her strength. She preferred good English airs, folk songs and love songs which were simple to play and pleasant to sing.

"What a pity you did not bring your own music," said Miss Bingley, from her chair. "I am sure you would prefer it."

"I am sure I would. However, I believe I shall contrive without it." None of these would do for her current mood. Yielding to impulse, she decided to perform an old song she knew very well, an Irish love song which had captured her fancy when still a child. It would suit her, even if it did not suit her audience, and the conviction that Mr. Darcy would disapprove such an ordinary choice only made her more determined.

She began her song, and the pleasure of singing it soon overtook any other feeling. How fine it was to play on such an excellent instrument, to hear its resonant tones and hers together, to wind her way through the familiar fingering, and to have both her heart and voice lift with each beloved line. _If I were a blackbird, I'd whistle and sing. I'd follow the ship that my true love sails in. And in the top rigging, I'd build my nest…_

At the song's plaintive end she sat, a small smile on her lips, until her eyes met Mr. Darcy's. He was very serious. She looked archly as Mr. Bingley began to applaud; Mr. Darcy applauded too after a moment, but she hardly gave him credit for _that._ It could only be an empty formality on his part. Nevertheless she stayed where she was and performed one or two other pieces until Miss Bingley's impatience became too overt to be ignored, when she yielded her place and returned to her seat.

Miss Bingley began with a very complicated concerto indeed, and Elizabeth did her justice enough to say she played it well. After a few minutes she was surprised to see Mr. Darcy leave his chair and walk in her direction. Surely, she thought, he would have nothing to say to her. He sat down near her and looked as if he would speak, but instead sat silent for several more minutes. Miss Bingley finished the first movement and began the second. Mr. Darcy again looked as if he would speak. She could not help smiling quizzically at him, and his brows snapped together. Sorry for the smile, she looked away.

Finally, after another lengthy pause, he spoke. " _If I Were a Blackbird_ —you have sung it often, I suppose."

"I have."

"Is it a favorite of yours?"

"I do not suppose I would have sung it so often if it was not."

"The imagery in it, of transforming into a bird and following your lover across the sea—it appeals to you?"

"Within the context of the song it does."

"This is something you would do in actuality."

She wrinkled her brow. "Transform into a bird?"

"No, follow the man you loved—love even when it seemed hopeless."

"Having never known hopeless love, I do not know. I hope I would not completely abandon common sense. Mr. Darcy, the reasons I have for liking that song so well are not in any one element of it. It is the song, as a whole, that appeals to me, and it is not fair to try to extract any one idea, any more than it would be to extract a single note. If you wish to understand why I like it, then look to the song, not to me."

He leaned in a little bit. "So you mean to say that the song is a representation of you, in a sense."

"Not entirely." She was sure he meant to mock her now. "I hope there is more to me than one song, Mr. Darcy."

At that he drew back, but continued to stare at her, and after a moment she heard him murmur, "Yes, I suppose you would have many songs." Almost immediately he stood up and retreated to his former place. She was baffled, but quickly put it out of her mind.

~%~

She met Mr. Darcy again the following morning, when she went down to breakfast. He was the only one in the room when she arrived: he stood as she entered, they each bowed, and she went to fill her plate. She felt his gaze and wondered again why he should persist in staring at her.

At the table she sat as far from him as she could manage, though that was not so far, since it was a small table. She applied herself to her food and hoped that he would do the same, but instead he took a sip of coffee and asked, "You are an early riser?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Apparently."

"You prefer country hours."

"We are in the country."

"I suspect, though, that you would prefer country hours even in the city."

"Perhaps so."

"And you enjoy long country walks?"

"Only when I can get them."

"Which is often."

She put down her fork. "Is there a point to this inquiry?"

"Not at all." He returned to his coffee and toast, and Elizabeth made some progress on her meal. When she happened to glance up she found him staring at her again.

"Do you wish to critique my table manners, Mr. Darcy?"

He seemed startled. "Of course not."

"I wonder you should find them such a cause for study, then."

She might have thought he blushed, were it not for the look of greater hauteur that spread over his features. "You must be mistaken. Forgive me, I will leave you to breakfast in peace." He rose, leaving his coffee cup half filled. Elizabeth was glad that he was gone, a little embarrassed at having made him leave, and more determined than ever in her dislike of him.

"His moods are capricious," she told Jane later. "Unpredictable, but always unpleasant."

"Perhaps he likes the way you look," suggested her sister.

"That is a suggestion only my dear Jane could make. You know _that_ matter has long been settled. No, if anything, Mr. Darcy stares only to put me out of countenance. Well!—he shall not succeed." She smile determinedly. "Now, your Mr. Bingley seems very anxious about your welfare. I daresay he would ascend the lattice and climb into your window if he could, just to get a glimpse of you."

Jane blushed. "Mr. Bingley is very kind. I wish I were not so prone to fevers, or I might be able to go downstairs and speak with him."

"You are improving, I am sure you are. Soon enough you will be well. We must be optimists and believe the length of your sickness is only increasing his interest. The longer he has to wait, the more he will anticipate seeing you."

Jane shook her head but smiled, and the two sisters laughed together. Elizabeth remained with her upstairs for the rest of the morning, talking to her, reading to her, or simply sitting with her. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst eventually came by for a short visit, and were congenial and amusing for the time they were there. Mr. Bingley sent his kind inquiries and regards. Elizabeth collided with Mr. Darcy in the corridor when she ran to her own room for some item—though how, she did not know, because his own rooms were on the other end of the house—and for a moment she thought he was not going to move out of her way, but finally he bowed and stepped aside. "Horrid man," she muttered to herself, laughing, as she continued on.

~%~

In the early afternoon Jane fell asleep again, and Elizabeth, hesitating between remaining or seizing her liberty, decided at last to go down to the library for a book. Its offerings were rather sparse, but she was sure she could find something worthy of an afternoon's entertainment.

And there, again, she found herself unexpectedly coming across Mr. Darcy, while browsing the shelves. Not that he was in the room; rather, he was outside of it, in the garden, and he was pacing.

Mr. Darcy pacing in the garden? It was quite the strangest thing Elizabeth had seen at Netherfield, and she could not help but stand at the window and watch him. His steps were quick and impatient, his manner distracted. Most of the time his hands were clasped firmly behind his back, but occasionally he would raise one in a half-gesture before returning it hurriedly to its place. Sometimes he would glance toward the house, particularly the upstairs windows. Back and forth he went, up and down the gravel pathway outside the library. It was obvious that something was disturbing his mind, but Elizabeth could not imagine what it might be. Something very significant must have happened to cause the usually sedate Mr. Darcy to behave with such open perturbation.

At long last, when she was almost tired just from looking at him, he stopped, and stood staring at nothing for some moments. Then he turned on his heel, and walked back toward the house and up the steps to re-enter by the long library windows. He moved so quickly that Elizabeth had barely time enough to jump out of the way and turn toward some shelves before he was in the room with her.

Three firm steps upon the carpet, and then—"Miss Bennet!"

He sounded inordinately startled; Elizabeth turned and made a polite curtsy. "Good day, Mr. Darcy." She could not resist studying him to see what hints his person might give: he looked the same as always, but his hair was a little ruffled, and he was staring at her again. "It is a fine day outside," she ventured.

It took him a moment to reply. "Yes, very fine."

"Did you enjoy your walk?"

He blinked, glanced toward the door and back again. "I do not know."

It was such a very odd thing for Mr. Darcy, of all people, to say, that she began to laugh, but checked it at the expression on his face. He seemed... disoriented.

"Good afternoon," she said finally, and, making another quick curtsy, turned to walk out of the room. Whatever was the matter with him, she no longer felt inclined to stay here and discover it. Mr. Darcy's problems were certainly none of her concern.

She had almost reached the door when he called after her. "Miss Bennet!" She glanced back. "Please," he said, "stay a moment."

This was stranger still, but she turned obediently and walked a few steps back into the room, waiting for him to speak.

He looked for a moment as if he would start pacing again; she noticed his hands, clenching and unclenching. His dark eyes were fixed on her face with uncomfortable intensity.

As if reaching a sudden resolution, he came forward and began. "I know," he said, "that your situation in life is decidedly beneath my own. Your connections are inferior, and your relations are vulgar. However, despite these and other objections, I have felt the strongest attraction to you since very early in our acquaintance, and I believe that in these last days my feelings have grown beyond attraction, to something more warm and ardent. I believe, in short, that I have fallen in love with you, and since I am not the sort of man who falls in and out of love with ease, I have every reason to expect the attachment to be lasting. Therefore, despite your lack of suitable connections or fortune, I would like, without further delay, to offer you my hand—to ask you to be my wife."

Elizabeth's surprise was beyond expression. At first she could only stare in wonder, and as his avowal continued, she progressed with such rapidity through indignation, dismay and repugnance that when he finally ceased talking she scarcely knew what to say. He extended his hand to her as he finished, clearly expecting her to take it, but instead she moved her hands behind her back and stepped away from him. "No," she said at last.

His astonishment was not likely to endear him to her. "No?"

Desperately she tried to gather her scattered thoughts. "I am honoured by your proposal, but I cannot accept."

His hand fell slowly; he seemed uncertain what to do. "May I know the reason for your refusal?"

"Must a lady give a reason?"

Again he seemed caught off guard. "A man wants to know."

"Very well." She put up her chin a little. "I do not believe we should suit."

"I disagree."

"The decision is mine to make, however, and I cannot be so careless as to agree to a match that I believe would lead both of us into misery."

He drew back, almost as if she had slapped him, and looked... well, he looked hurt. She was sorry for that, especially if his feelings for her were as strong as he professed—but that she truly doubted. Surely this affection was a perverse fancy on his part, perhaps borne of the very fact that she did not flatter him like Miss Bingley did. He would quickly forget it. And even if he did not, she could not accept a man she detested! Mr. Darcy might be rich, and she supposed she knew no actual ill of him, but he was proud and unpleasant, and she could never be happy with him. The very manner of his proposal was offensive, though she did not suppose he even realised it.

"If I have caused you pain, I am sorry," she said quietly, "but please believe that it was most unconsciously done. Now, I beg you will excuse me." She turned and left before he could say another word.


	2. A Lot of Gold to Turn Down

**Hello, everyone! I'm so pleased by everyone who read my first chapter, and especially those who left comments. I should have an author's note on the first chapter, so I'm putting it here instead. This is a completed story (well except for one or two lines at the very end that I'm still thinking over). There are eighteen chapters. You can expect me to post a couple of times a week. I hope you enjoy it.**

 **Chapter 2: A Lot of Gold to Turn Down**

She remained in Jane's room for the rest of the afternoon, wishing fervently that they could go home. Her sister was still feverish though, and she could neither consider leaving nor removing her. She considered asking for a tray in her room, but knew such a request would be rude. Therefore, when the dinner bell rang she was ready, and went quietly down the stairs.

Mr. Darcy was in the room when she entered, standing off to the side and looking dour—but she averted her eyes as quickly as they identified him, and concentrated on greeting Mr. Bingley and the others. She gladly went into dinner with Bingley, leaving Darcy to escort Miss Bingley. When they were seated she lamented that their party was not larger—only six total, so it was impossible to be far from Mr. Darcy, though he had seated himself down the table and across from her. He was even more silent than usual, speaking only to answer Miss Bingley's sallies, and Elizabeth found herself unequal to much more.

After dinner Elizabeth excused herself to go check on her sister but, finding her sleeping, had no further excuse to remain upstairs. As strong as her desire to avoid Darcy was, she could not reconcile it to her conscience to claim Jane needed her when she did not. She entered the drawing room with some trepidation. Darcy, she saw immediately, was writing letters again, his tall form bent over the desk. Yesterday he had been writing slowly, but today his hand seemed to be moving with almost frantic speed. She saw his shoulders start when Mr. Bingley greeted her, and he turned his head and looked at her. Elizabeth blushed and hastily caught up a book from a side table, and sitting down, pretended to lose herself in it.

It was a volume of verse, and the pages fell open to a love poem. Finding it ironic, Elizabeth nevertheless began to read, and soon became genuinely interested in the expressions of passion. Some minutes passed in this way, until she heard Miss Bingley say, "Why, Mr. Darcy, what do you look for?"

"Only my book, madam," he replied.

There was a pause, then, "Why, Miss Elizabeth, I do believe you've taken Mr. Darcy's book. Did you not know it was his?"

Instantly she shut the book and held it out in his direction. "No, I am sorry."

He hesitated a moment before taking it. "No apology is necessary." Another pause. "Did you enjoy it?"

She looked away. "It passed the time well enough."

It burned her cheeks to realise that he might have thought of her as he read those poems. It was absurd, but less so than his proposal that afternoon. She could nearly believe it had all been imagined.

As soon as she reasonably could, Elizabeth excused herself. She looked in on Jane; she was still sleeping, and her skin felt cooler. Perhaps they would be able to return home soon.

Coming back into the hall, she nearly ran into Mr. Darcy. "Mr. Darcy!" Discomposed, she turned away, but he stopped her.

"Miss Bennet!"

"Mr. Darcy, I cannot imagine that we have anything to say to each other."

"And I cannot imagine why you persist in refusing my offer."

"I believe I already—"

"You said that you did not think we would suit, but that seems manifestly absurd to me."

"Absurd?" She faced him indignantly.

"Anyone can see that we are well matched for sense and intelligence. We both have, I hope, good principles and a high sense of honour. You have a sister to whom you are devoted, I have a sister to whom I am devoted."

"So far you have said nothing that could not be said of many people."

"Some, yes; not many, I think. And fewer still have the liveliness of mind which you display. How many men do you believe could keep up with you?—Who would welcome your wit instead of deprecating it?"

"This is not about my wit, sir!" She was beginning to feel very uncomfortable and flushed.

"Not entirely." Suddenly his face and voice seemed to soften. "If you were not so pretty, I might be less affected by it."

She gasped, and spun away. Darcy moved quickly to block her path. "You have not answered me."

"On the contrary, I have given you a very clear answer. It is you who refuse to accept it!"

"That is not what I meant, and you know it. Tell me why you will not marry me!"

An audible gasp behind them caused both of them to turn quickly. Miss Bingley stood in the hall, having just rounded the corner. She was staring, her face so pale she seemed she might faint. Elizabeth and Darcy, by contrast, turned bright red. "Excuse me," Elizabeth murmured and, brushing past Darcy, fled to her room. She did not sleep much that night, too agitated and amazed to lie peacefully. That Mr. Darcy should love her was absurd, that he should annoy her with offers of marriage, beyond belief. Surely, surely, she would wake and find it all a dream.

~%~

After an agitated night, Elizabeth rose early and slipped down to the garden for a stroll before breakfast. She hoped that there, at least, she might be free from harassment. She found she was wrong when Darcy suddenly appeared before her. "You need to marry, and marry well."

This time she coloured in outright anger. "You are no gentleman to continue importuning me this way."

"I am only attempting to finish our conversation which was interrupted."

"I do not want to marry you!"

"That is nonsensical. Every woman wants to marry, and you cannot hope to do better."

"In terms of wealth I am sure you are right, but unlike some, I wish for more than a rich husband."

He laughed. "What do you wish for, then?"

She narrowed her eyes. "An amiable husband."

The laugh disappeared. "I do not take your point."

"Then let me make myself unmistakably clear. Your behaviour through this entire affair has been typical of the overweening arrogance that you display at every turn, Mr. Darcy. Your disdain for my family and my neighbourhood has been more than apparent, and has awoken an answering disdain in me. You are the most unpleasant man I have ever had the misfortune to know, and I would not marry you for all the gold in Ophir!"

He stared at her, his own eyes narrowed. "That is a lot of gold to turn down, madam, especially since you are destined to be poor."

"No poverty could make me as miserable as living with you would."

"And you base this astounding conclusion on what evidence? Have I ever lied to you, or been unkind to you? Have I comported myself as a rake, or a dandy, or talked like a fool? No! Rather, I have been scrupulously honest and sincere, I have respected your sense and intelligence—mistakenly, it appears!—and been circumspect about raising your expectations when I did not know my intentions. I am an honourable man, Miss Bennet, a just and many would say, generous one. My wife would lack for nothing. But _you_ , however—!" He turned away as if unable to continue.

"Mr. Darcy, I must beg that you give me leave to go in the house. I do not believe either of us would profit from a continuation of this interview."

"I had thought better of your sense!" He rounded on her as if he had not heard what she said. "I thought you were a woman with judgement, with principles and discernment—not one who would throw away her own future for a whim!"

She stared at him in disbelief. "Is your opinion of yourself truly so high that you think any woman you deign to honour with a proposal must lay herself down at your feet in gratitude, and that nothing less than a severe lapse in sense could make her do otherwise?"

"That is not what I meant."

"Oh no, it is! It is precisely what you meant!" She clenched her hands. "Have I not just cause to refuse a man so arrogant, so full of his own worth that he cannot accept that there might be a woman in the world who does not wish to marry him? A man who can profess love with one breath, and with the other insult and berate the object of his choice? Mr. Darcy, even if I had not been previously set against you, what persuasion could tempt me after this? It is _because_ I have principles, and discernment, and judgement that I refuse you!"

Once again she turned to flee from him, but he caught her wrist. "I cannot accept that."

"You must." Pulling her arm away with a jerk, she stared at him coldly. "I will not change my mind."

This time when she turned he did not stop her, although she knew that he stood and watched her until she gained the house.

Entering through the conservatory, she collided with Miss Bingley. Mumbling an apology she tried to move past her, but the lady blocked her path.

"What did you do to him?" Miss Bingley demanded.

She did not pretend to misunderstand. "Nothing. I did nothing." Once again she tried to move on, and once again was prevented.

"You must have done something. Men like Mr. Darcy do not just go around proposing to—to anyone!—let alone…" She gestured at Lizzy's person. "Tell me, what arts did you use? What means of allurement?"

Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to avoid laughing hysterically. "I ignored him, quarrelled with him, and laughed at him as often as possible, Miss Bingley. Perhaps that is what he likes; you have my permission to try it. Now may I go, please?"

With reluctance and a suspicious look, Miss Bingley moved aside, and Elizabeth hurried upstairs, praying that Jane would be well enough to leave Netherfield soon—preferably this morning! But Jane, although improved, was clearly not recovered yet. She answered Lizzy's suggestion with immediate agreement and tried to climb out of bed, but her weakness was so obvious that Elizabeth simply could not do it. Instead she pushed her back onto the pillows, and promised they would stay at least another night. Privately, though, she vowed that she would not go downstairs again, no matter how rude it appeared. She would remain in Jane's room or her own, neither of which even Darcy dared enter—she hoped.

~%~

This resolution was more difficult to carry out than she had anticipated. She did manage to remain in her room through dinner, but after a long and peaceful afternoon's rest Jane was well enough to go downstairs, and she could not deny it to her. They went down together, Jane warmly wrapped in a shawl the colour of her eyes. Elizabeth had hoped to sit with Jane, and by dint of remaining close to her, avoid the attentions, if not the notice, of Mr. Darcy. In this she was foiled by Mr. Bingley, for as soon as they entered he begged Miss Bennet to sit down in the chair closest to the fire, and promptly sat down in the opposite one himself. This left Elizabeth the settee between Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, the sofa next to Mr. Hurst, an armchair nearby to where Mr. Darcy himself was seated with a book, or one or two other pieces of furniture which were far enough removed from the central groupings to cause alarm. Elizabeth had just settled in her mind that sitting close to Mr. Hurst was worth the security it offered when he gave up his battle with wakefulness and, putting his feet up, reclined full length. Thus Elizabeth had no choice but to sit in a chair at a distance from Jane and the fire, equally at a distance from Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley.

She need not have worried. Mr. Darcy did not disturb her; he did not even speak to her. With solemn civility he addressed himself to Jane, offering congratulations on her recovery, but Elizabeth got no more than a few long, serious looks. He adhered to his book, and Elizabeth thought with relief that perhaps he had finally accepted her refusal.

Two sources of enjoyment were afforded to her that evening: first, watching Jane's happiness in being with Mr. Bingley and Mr. Bingley's rapture in being with Jane; and second, observing Miss Bingley, who spent the time either ignoring or disagreeing with Mr. Darcy. Apparently, she had decided to attempt Elizabeth's method of seduction. Mr. Darcy looked a little surprised when she insisted that it had _not_ been a good day for shooting grouse, but he refrained from arguing with her.

It was not long before Jane grew tired again, and Elizabeth announced her intention of retiring along with her. They went upstairs and Elizabeth helped Jane into bed, then sat and talked with her for several minutes. The whole of her conversation with Mr. Bingley had to be gone over, and all of his virtues suitably admired, after all. Finally she left her in a darkened room, already dozing off beneath her little frilled cap.

Elizabeth turned in the direction of her own room, then remembered that she had left her embroidery, with which she had planned to occupy herself until bed, downstairs in the drawing room. To go again into the lion's den seemed a little risky, but after all she had no real cause for alarm. So she made her way back downstairs, and retrieved the stitchery with a quick word of explanation. She noticed that Mr. Darcy was no longer present, but thought that he must either have retired, or be playing billiards down the hall—and so moved rather quickly past that particular room. Feeling almost like a small, errant child, she tip-toed up the stairs, and was just breathing a sigh of relief in the corridor when from around the corner came the man himself.

"Miss Bennet—"

Without a word Elizabeth turned on her heel to go back the way she came.

"Miss Bennet, if you would only allow me a minute of your time," he persisted, pursuing her.

"I do not want to talk to you." The stairs were only a short distance ahead; surely he would not follow her down them, into the main hall.

"I know that," he said, his long strides easily outpacing hers. "But if I could just—" He put his hand on her upper arm to stop her, but at the look she gave him immediately drew it back. "I have been walking the halls for some time in hope of—"

"Why can you not leave me alone?" she demanded, hurrying toward the top of the steps.

"I have every intention—if you would listen to me for one—" He had moved to block her path, just before the stairs, and Elizabeth, with a rising sense of panic, darted past, but at the last moment he reached out as if to catch hold of her again, so she half-turned to avoid him and, her attention all on him, stumbled on the first step, her feet slipping, and the force of her rush carried her all the way down, tumbling down the fine marble staircase to the grand front hall where she lay in a heap on the Axminster carpet.

Elizabeth's vision blurred and swam; black spots danced before her eyes. There was a searing pain in her head, another in her foot, and she knew she had screamed. Other impressions were vague: her name, cried out in a terrible voice; Mr. Darcy's face, very white, hovering over her; then a cacophony of other voices, and the sensation of being lifted, and everything went black completely.


End file.
